


Darling buds of May

by sirona



Series: Darling buds of May [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Flowers, Get Together, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur agrees to help out a desperate customer at the last minute, he has no idea what he's getting himself into. But then that's Eames for you. If only Eames would stop trying to trick his name out of him, everything would be right with the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling buds of May

**Author's Note:**

> Written for distracterisey, for her generous donation to help_japan. Thank you, darling! Her prompt was **florist!Arthur/recurring customer!Eames**. Thanks as always to SuperBeta zolac_no_miko for her sharp eye and unfailing support!  <3

"Hello, _Penrose Flowers_!"

"Roger, darling!"

Arthur sighs. "Must you call me that, Mr Eames?"

"My dear, until you concede to tell me your real name, you'll have to put up with being my Roger Penrose!"

Arthur's lips thin, but it's a game he started himself, even if he's grown weary with it of late. "What can I help you with today?" he says instead. It comes out far more fond than he'd meant it to.

"It's my niece Alice's birthday, she turns nine."

"Ah. So, something cheerful, then? Pink, I'm guessing?"

Eames groans theatrically on the other side. "Oh god, _yes_. It's like no other colour exists, she's driving me up the wall, the little darling," he adds warmly.

Arthur smirks. "You got it. What time will you be picking it up?"

"How soon can you make it?"

Arthur looks at his watch. He's got another arrangement to finish... but it'll keep. "It can be ready in half an hour."

"Already counting the minutes, darling," Eames enthuses.

Arthur rolls his eyes as he hangs up.

\---

It started innocently enough, with another birthday. Arthur was putting the finishing touches to his last pick-up of the day when he heard the the doorbell jangle and hurried footsteps rush across the floor. Several minutes passed, full of muted conversation, before Ariadne poked her head into the back room, looking apologetic.

"Will you come out for a minute, Arthur? Only there's this guy, and it's his mom's birthday, and Cobol across the street _completely_ butchered his order, gave him some monstrosity full of weeds and wilted flowers, and the poor man is desperate, so I said I'd ask if you could help him out, I'd do it myself, I swear, but it's Yusuf's recital tonight, remember, I told you a week ago, and I'm already running late--"

"Ariadne, _breathe_ ," Arthur insisted, watching as she took a deep breath and her eyes lost some of their wildness. "Of course I'll help. Damn Cobol, honestly, doesn't he know any better..."

He finished tying the ribbon on the roses-and-lilies arrangement, straightened his waistcoat and made his way round the corner and out into the main showroom.

The man fidgeting by the counter had the same wild look in his eyes as Ariadne when he spun around to face him--and froze, mouth half-open around a word.

"Hi," he said faintly, giving Arthur what he probably thought was a subtle once-over. "You must be the owner. Look, I'm desperately sorry to barge in on you like this, but it's an emergency. How quickly can you throw together a bouquet of white flowers? Large, stylish, you know?" he babbled, gesturing madly like it would magic the flowers from thin air.

Arthur bit at his lip absentmindedly. "How long do I have?" he asked, already sorting his options out in his mind.

The man checked his watch, lips moving slightly. "About ten minutes?" he said, desperate hope in his voice.

Arthur considered, then pushed his shirtsleeves up. "Okay. The basics. How old is she? What kind of flowers does she like--wait, how does she feel about peonies? I got a delivery fresh this afternoon, they're still perfect, and they'll make a nice base--what?" he cut himself off impatiently, because the man was gaping at him in wonder.

"Peonies are my mother's favourite flowers! How did you _know_?" he asked, sounding enthralled.

"Excellent," Arthur said, ignoring the rest. "Grab that bucket and bring it over here," he directed, pointing at the long counter top running through the back of the store. The man rushed over to comply.

As he bent over, Arthur allowed himself to run an appreciative eye over his back, impeccably dressed in a dove-grey Dunhill, if Arthur was any judge. The man's shoulders bunched as he lifted the heavy bucket seemingly without effort and carried it over to Arthur at a near run.

Arthur pushed the distraction to the back of his mind as he draped a large piece of tissue paper to cover the gleaming cherry wood, and started to pull out stem after stem of the lush flowers, velvety petals caressing his fingers as he laid them out on the paper. The scent of them filled the shop, calmed Arthur's mind as he started to assemble the base and the structural support of the bouquet. He turned around and plucked strands of baby's breath out of a small vase by the back wall, ducked behind the man to fetch four beautiful white roses, the buds unfurled just enough to hint at the potential of the bloom. He placed a peony in the centre, secured the roses around the luscious head, added a strand or two of floaty baby's breath before finishing it off with the rest of the extravagant peonies. He threaded the rest of the baby's breath around them, to give an illusion of lightness, and tugged at the stems so that a few leaves peeked through the arrangement to break up all the white.

He stepped back to consider his creation, then tugged the roses a fraction of an inch higher than the peonies, to make them more distinctive, and tied all the stems together with a long winding cream ribbon, starting from the base of the bouquet and threading it through and around the stems until the arrangement was as secure as it could get. He took a step back again, watching it through narrow eyes, but it held together beautifully. Satisfied, he handed [the finished result](http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1334/1431079371_80dda7b550.jpg) over to the customer, waiting to see his reaction. The man watched him, wide-eyed.

"You, my dear, are an absolute _marvel_ ," he murmured, digging into his pocket and pressing a $100 bill into Arthur's hand. "Thank you, _thank you_ , you are a lifesaver," he added hurriedly, waving aside Arthur's protests that it was far too much. "I paid Cobol twice that, and look at the cock-up they managed. You won't be getting rid of me from now on, I give you fair warning!" he called over his shoulder as he rushed out to the waiting car.

It was a sleek champagne-coloured baby Bentley. Arthur's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. He watched the car drive off before unfolding his fingers from around the note, only to discover it wrapped around a business card. _William Eames_ , it read. _CEO, Eames Entertainment_.

"Oh my god," Arthur said faintly. He'd just ordered around and cobbled together a flower arrangement for the city's foremost events manager.

\---

And so it began. The name thing became something of an in-joke almost from the start, Eames trying all sorts of tricks to work it out, and Arthur trying just as hard not to let him -- just for the thrill of it, and because some small, pathetic part of him wished Eames would just _ask_ him, instead of trying to con it out of him for sport.

The first time really _was_ a joke -- the phone rang, and Arthur picked it up distractedly, trying not to drop the vase of daisies he'd put together on a whim.

"Penrose Flowers, how may I help?"

"May I ask whom I am speaking to?"

Arthur would know that voice _anywhere_ ; he didn't even need the distinctive plummy, almost caricature accent to clue him in.

"The manager," he said dryly.

"Who is?" Eames drawled imperiously, like he expected Arthur to jump to obey. Well, he'd be waiting a _long_ time, Arthur thought mulishly.

"Can I help you, Mr Eames?" he drawled back.

There was a pause on the line. "You remembered," Eames said sheepishly, which did not hide the delight in his voice. It went some way to appease Arthur's stubborn streak.

"I don't see too many Englishmen in a rush for their mother's birthday party pass through my shop. Is there something I can do for you?"

Eames accepted his defeat graciously. "I wish to order four dozen salmon pink roses, to be delivered to 336 W 37th Street, #840, within the hour, please."

Arthur hummed thoughtfully. "Would [Pekcoubo roses](http://www.fantasia-blumen.de/_images/Grafik_2/PEKCOUBO.jpg) do?"

Another silence, this one managing to sound confused. "I--have no idea what you're talking about, actually, _but_ I will bow to your superior knowledge. Whatever you feel is appropriate, my dear."

Arthur bit back the 'you sure you want to trust me on that one?' -- because he didn't actually want to hear the much more charged pause and the sudden suspicion in Eames' tone when he said, 'Actually, now that you mention it...'

"That would be $300, Mr Eames," he warned. Pekcoubo roses did not come cheap, but it was all Arthur could get in large quantities at such short notice.

"Charge it to my account, will you, darling?"

"You don't have an account," Arthur said peevishly. The man was too assuming by half.

"But you'll open one for me, won't you, love?" Eames said sweetly.

Arthur opened his mouth, piqued enough to snap back an 'I don't _think_ so', but closed it when reluctant amusement at Eames' tactics threatened to tug his lips into a smile. The man was charming, and didn't he just know it. Besides, that was a large enough order he had just landed in Arthur's lap that Arthur could cut the guy some slack. The address Eames was sending him to was extremely upmarket, and if he played his cards right, he could get quite a bit of repeat business from that one.

"Indeed I shall," he said, trying not to sound too pleased with himself. "Would you like to have them wrapped?"

He could practically _feel_ Eames radiate smugness on the other side. The fact that it made him want to smile even more was mildly worrisome, but nothing Arthur couldn't handle.

\---

The second time, Eames went for the sneaky approach. Arthur walked out to the front counter just in time to see Ariadne smile wickedly as she fielded questions from whoever was on the phone.

"Oh, you mean Mr Moss?" she said, throwing Arthur an amused look. "Ah-ah! I'm not telling! Please excuse me for just a moment--your Mr Eames is quite determined to find out your name," she stage-whispered to Arthur once she'd curled her palm over the speaker. "I'm running out of excuses." The twinkle in her eye called her a fibber, but Arthur held out a hand for the receiver anyway. She handed it over gleefully.

"Mr Eames. How lovely to hear from you so soon. I trust the Pekcoubo roses were to your satisfaction?"

Eames made a growling sound on the other end of the line. "I will find out eventually, you know," he warned, determination firming his voice.

"Good luck with that," Arthur said cheerfully. "Now, was there a point to this phone call?"

Eames sighed in resignation. "So cruel, darling. Very well, I need two hundred [pink frangipani ](http://frank.itlab.us/photo_essays/small/dec_13_6841_frangipani.jpg) table arrangements in time for New York Fashion Week."

Arthur worried at his lower lip. "Eames, that's cutting it pretty damn close. You couldn't have called three weeks ago? Do you know how difficult those are to get hold of?"

There was a short silence. "Frankly, at this point there's no other florist in New York that I'd trust to do it," Eames said at last, completely serious for a change.

Arthur fought the warm feeling blooming in his chest--admittedly, not that hard. "It'll cost you," he warned, because it would be almost prohibitively expensive to procure pink frangipani flowers, in those quantities, at such short notice.

"It always does," Eames said; there was a strange note in his voice, a little wistful, a lot fond. "Though I hope not as much as it did last time I was in a rush."

"It'll be about ten times that," Arthur felt obliged to point out, because $1,000 might just about cover the cost.

"I doubt that, darling," Eames countered, still with that faint note of self-depreciation in his voice. Something told Arthur they weren't talking about the $100 from their first meeting anymore.

\---

"I cannot believe you, Eames!" Arthur yelled the next time Eames came into the shop, though they could both tell Arthur was not so much angry as amused. "You made _your mother_ call to try and bamboozle my name out of me?"

"Desperate measures," Eames demurred, but he was grinning widely. "At least give me a clue, love, for god's sake, I'm dying here."

"Why don't you look it up in the trading registers, if you're so desperate?" Arthur asked, half mocking and half genuinely curious.

Eames gave him a hurt look. "That would be _cheating_ ," he said, sounding scandalised. "Go on, darling, be a sport. Does it have something to do with the shop's name?"

Arthur made a show of considering his answer as Eames looked on, eyes wide and hopeful. "I am rather partial to paradoxical architecture," he conceded with an air of imparting a secret.

Eames' eyes gleamed in victory. "Excellent!" he beamed, carefully took the daisies Arthur handed him and left the shop with a spring in his step.

Not a half hour later, the phone rang.

"You absolute _bastard_ , that was no answer at all!" Eames raged in his ear.

Arthur laughed and laughed and laughed, harder than he could remember doing for a very long time. A full five minutes later Eames was still on the line, laughing right along with him.

\---

The next time Eames called, he started calling Arthur 'Roger', after Penrose's first name.

\---

Arthur can't deny that he's pretty damn flattered by Eames' persistence. A part of him doesn't want the game to end; but it's a small, childish part that enjoys winning at all cost. The rest of him is looking forward more and more to having Eames find it out. A big part of it is that every time Eames calls, Arthur finds himself holding his breath a little in anticipation of Eames saying his name -- and every time Eames says "Roger" instead, in that soft, lush accent of his, something in Arthur recoils almost violently. In the two months they’ve known each other, the line between shopper and customer, if it ever existed, is pretty much whittled down to nothing, and Arthur can't help but feel they're moving ever closer to a point in their acquaintance when what's left of it has to snap.

\---

A week after the extraordinarily _pink_ concoction Arthur puts together for Eames’ niece, an invitation arrives.

>  _Dear Mr ___________,_
> 
>  _You are cordially invited to a private viewing of **M. C. Escher: His Life and Works** , the largest collection of M. C. Escher's works gathered in one place since 1981. _
> 
> _Friday, 7.30pm, AIA. Black tie. RSVP_

Arthur swallows, fingers holding the invitation gently lest he wrinkle it irrevocably in his excitement. There's only one person he knows that has the power to pull the strings to secure one of these. Arthur has been racking his brains how to sneak in ever since he heard about it -- it's the most sought-out event of the season.

There's a nervous flutter warring with the exhilaration in his chest when he picks up the phone.

"Eames," the familiar voice states coolly in his ear.

"Mr Eames, this is--" Arthur flounders, wanting to kick himself. How is he supposed to announce himself to a man to whom he refuses to tell his name? A nice mess he's gotten himself into.

"Roger!" Eames cuts in, even as Arthur is contemplating just hanging up and curling up in a ball in the corner, to die of embarrassment. "Did you get the invitation?"

"I did," Arthur says, grasping the straw Eames extends him. "Uh, thank you. I've been thinking of ways to bribe my way in for weeks."

Expectant silence stretches between them, unmistakably pleased on Eames' end.

"I suppose it'll cost me my name?" Arthur asks finally, amusement clear in his voice. It's as good a time as any, and if he's honest, he's been itching for an excuse to move this thing between them to the next level.

Which is when Eames surprises him completely.

"No, darling. I think I'd rather wait until you're ready to tell me yourself," Eames says simply.

Arthur is struck speechless, that warmth that is never quite dormant these days bursting into furious life inside him, brighter and more enchanting than any of the gorgeous flowers around him.

"Well then," he says, and he can't keep the elation from his voice, because finally, _finally_ \--"I guess you can fill it in yourself, Mr Eames. It's Arthur David Moss."

There's a sharply indrawn breath on the other side of the line.

"All you had to do was ask," Arthur tells him gently, when Eames can't seem to find his words.

"Arthur," Eames murmurs, so warm, so wondrous, and oh, the rush those two syllables send through Arthur's whole body is _electric_.

"How soon can you get here, Mr Eames?" he says, galvanised by the sound of Eames' voice curling around his name for the first time.

"Not soon enough," Eames growls, and then rushed footsteps not unlike the ones Arthur heard almost three months ago echo in Arthur's ear. "Amanda, call down for my car," he hears Eames command, and the effect that has on Arthur is quite-- _interesting_ , never mind that it wasn't him Eames had spoken to. Arthur shivers in anticipation.

"Set your affairs in order for the rest of tonight, _Arthur_. You have a date to entertain," Eames tells him, and hangs up before he can hear Arthur hum happily.

Arthur hangs up on his end, too, and cannot for the life of him contain the delighted grin splitting his face in two. He sees Ariadne standing in the corner by the window, glancing furtively at her watch, and just knows she's gearing herself up to ask him if she can go early, since it's so quiet. She is going to hate him, and he doesn't care one bit.

"Ariadne," he tells her magnanimously. "It's your lucky day. You get to close the shop for the night."

He ignores her incredulous gaping and goes to fetch the jacket matching his cream pinstriped pants from the back office. It's his lucky day too, he thinks smugly to himself as he hears well-oiled brakes screech to a stop outside the shop.

\-----


End file.
